


I Live By the River

by Pigfarts23



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Pining Sherlock, Post-Reichenbach, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-05
Updated: 2014-07-05
Packaged: 2018-02-07 12:37:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1899312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pigfarts23/pseuds/Pigfarts23
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Reichenbach.</p>
<p>A day passed. Then that day turned into days, which turned into double-digit days, which eventually spiralled off into the hundreds. Sherlock had no idea how he was doing it, staying alive long enough so that he could get back to London</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Live By the River

**Author's Note:**

> So I was toying with this idea for a while and then I decided to just go and write it. Apologies if my Sherlock isn't very Sherlocky, this is my first time writing from his point of view.
> 
>  
> 
> The title comes from [ London Calling, by The Clash](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lotkzHsIuoA)  
> I don't own; Sherlock and any associated characters are property of ACD and the BBC's Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.

He looked out over the horizon, watching the sun set on another grueling day. The final suspect in this part of Moriarty's web would be coming to the building in a few moments. And then he'd be off, heading to the next part of the world. Each part of the world, one step closer to London...

and one step closer to  ** _John._**

The sunset was something he wished that John would experience with him. At the edge of Hong Kong, watching the sunset near Stanley Market, John would find it romantic and keep his eyes glued on it until the sun set completely. And Sherlock.. well, Sherlock could not be bothered to watch such trivial things. He'd watch John, drink in the profile of his doctor, watch in rapt captivation as the golden hues danced across his face and ruffled his short hair.

_London calling to the faraway towns_   
_Now war is declared, and battle come down_   
_London calling to the underworld_   
_Come out of the cupboard, you boys and girls_

But Sherlock was alone, hearing the faint calling of London in his pulse. Hong Kong wasn't good enough; Beijing was too smoggy, and Shanghai was too bright. He missed London with a dull ache; the smell, the sights, and _**John.**_

He shook his head roughly, dislodging a couple of books from his mind palace, as he desperately tried to remove John's golden profile from his mind. He was probably happy back in London, now that he didn't have to chase Sherlock everywhere and remind him to eat. As the sun set below the water, he turned away, blending back into the darkness, heading to where the last little spider sat in Hong Kong. Moriarty's suicide had set him off on this hunt across the world, taking down his snipers, one by one. The last battle against Moriarty before Sherlock could be sure John was safe. He didn't want updates from Mycroft on John - he knew that if he saw John, this whole battle would be gone, and he would be on the first flight back to London, answering the call that was beckoning him across continents.

Moriarty's vast underworld extended into the depths of China, going as far south as Malaysia and going as far north as Svalbard, reaching into Canada and digging holes in the Amazon. He had managed to suppress the first callings from London when he had set out for the Amazon all those months ago. He had infiltrated the drug cartel that Moriarty ran in that area, and he had coaxed the little minions out one by one, drawing them out of the woodwork and then shooting them.

_London calling, now don't look to us_   
_Phoney Beatlemania has bitten the dust_   
_London calling, see we ain't got no swing_   
_'Cept for the ring of that truncheon thing_

He thought of nothing but the Work - the little progress he made in each city, taking down Moriarty's web. Using nothing but his hands and stubbornness, he took down minion after minion. Some were easy to take care of; others, Moriarty had trained well, and Sherlock had to keep his wits about him as he fought.  After these fights he went back to the base his brother had set up for him, and tended to himself, patch by patch, uneven stitch by uneven stitch.

He travelled, and each time was worse. Standing in the airport, he always watched the planes flying for England, heading for London. Those times were when the pull was the worst - the call of London was strongest, and several times he had nearly gotten on the plane to London instead. His only thought for getting through this was that he was doing it for John.

_The ice age is coming, the sun's zooming in_   
_Meltdown expected, the wheat is growing thin_   
_Engines stop running, but I have no fear_   
_'Cause London is drowning, and I live by the river_

He was in America at one point - the technology master for a spy ring that was starting to infiltrated a company that was taking over small towns. The hostess there tended to him on a regular basis, her touch calm and clinical, but nothing like John's. After the first stabbing, he refused to let her near him, and he tended to himself, imagining his hands were John's, calm, clinical, yet somehow comforting. He watched as Moriarty's American web crumbled around him, saw the lives of people destroyed, but he did not let himself fear. Fear would open the dam of irrational thoughts, and Sherlock had no energy to deal with the drowning of his mind in emotions. He walked along the banks of the rivers of emotions, always slightly swaying, always keeping the tide of churning feelings down below him.

_London calling to the imitation zone_   
_Forget it, brother, you can go it alone_

He was in London. London, Ontario. The minature London. Of course it was named inaccurately - the small town could hardly be compared to the large metropolis that called to him daily. His brother had abandoned him at this point - Sherlock had stopped going to the check in points, but was expecting a minion to come out at trail him.

He had never felt so alone - even before John, he had the Work. Now, the Work and John were married, and he was taking a break from John, and the Work wasn't the same, it didn't bring the same passion. 

For the first time in Sherlock Holmes' life, he wished for some company.

_London calling to the zombies of death_   
_Quit holding out, and draw another breath_   
_London calling, and I don't wanna shout_   
_But while we were talking, I saw you nodding out_

Irene Alder found him one day. In the airport, as he was landing in Norway, she caught up to him. So much for her faking her death - twice. She handed him a cigarette and asked what the plan was. He lit the cigarette before replying, relishing in the better quality of cigarettes in Europe compared to the American crap. He told her he had no plan, except to take down the web. He wasn't stupid, he wasn't about to tell her his plans. She seemed to pick up on this, and took him to the check point that Mycroft had messaged her with earlier. Mycroft was behind this, of course. Irene told him it was to ensure that he got back to John in one piece.

**_John._ **

Hearing his name spoken out loud for the first time in months, Sherlock snarled and locked himself in the room. Irene picked the lock after a few hours of silence, and started talking about how much she missed London as well; missed the pulse of the city, the calling of the cabs and the singing of the horns. Sherlock listened, sulking, but his body eventually shut down, and he slept well for the first time since he had left London.

_London calling, see we ain't got no high_   
_Except for that one with the yellowy eyes_

He awoke with a start; Irene was curled up beside him, and he felt drowsy. Rousing himself, he sat down and started planning how they would infiltrate this part of the web. They were slowly closing in on Sebastian Moran, closing in on the inner web that surrounded him and guarded him, Moriarty's second in command. Once he was down, the mission would be done, and Sherlock would finally be able to answer London's call. Sebastian Moran, the snake with the yellow eyes supporting the spider with the red ones. With a shock, Sherlock wondered where those poetic words had come from; it was almost as if his subconscious missed John so much he was creating bad writing to try and get nearer to him.

_The ice age is coming, the sun's zooming in_   
_Engines stop running, the wheat is growing thin_   
_A nuclear error, but I have no fear_   
_'Cause London is drowning, and I live by the river_

Sherlock and Irene attacked swiftly, taking down the remaining web around Moran. When he set off at the airport, they set off after him, chasing him around the globe. They went through fields in Poland, raced through vineyards in France, until at last he ended up in a nuclear plant in Russia. The homesickness was so strong for Sherlock, the call of London so strong, he didn't think, he went in and killed the bastard who had caused him a year and a half's worth of suffering, of resisting the call for London. In his mind, he looked along the bank of the swelling river, and without a second thought, jumped into it, letting the emotions he had suppressed for almost two years raise arms now. London was calling and he was drowning in relief.

_Now get this_   
  
_London calling, yes, I was there, too_   
_An' you know what they said? Well, some of it was true!_

Sherlock and Irene set off back for base right away. Well, Irene did. Sherlock slipped away and headed straight for the airport. He didn't stop himself this time, he answered the call of London gratefully, sinking back on to the airline's seat in an antsy kind of relief as he anticipated John's reaction.

**An open door, shocked owner.**

**"You were dead."**

**"And now I'm not. Dinner?"**

**"You jumped off a building in front of me, and you just expect me to go out for dinner with you?"**

**"No, I jumped off a building _for_ you, so yes I do."**

**A shuffling movement; then a quick punch, curls reeling backward and one hand to his cheek.**

**"Of course I'll go to dinner with you, you great git. But don't leave me alone again."**

_London calling at the top of the dial_   
_After all this, won't you give me a smile?_   
_London calling_

When John Watson stepped through his new flat doors and found Sherlock Holmes on his sofa, he was stunned. Sherlock was so relieved to see him, he made a comment about the decorations.

"You've redecorated. I don't like it." A haughty look, contemptous eyes.

"I had no choice. You left." A punch, a searing pain in his right arm. A head going back, curls flying upwards dramatically. Then apologies, and an awkward hug.

"As usual, you see, but you do not observe." A strange look.

"Right, I'm an idiot." An affectionate sigh, and he'd felt warm, he felt whole.

"I did it for you." A look, understanding.

"Right." A nod.

"Dinner?"

Come on, John, Sherlock thought, give me a smile. I've waited forever to see your smiles.

John smiled, and Sherlock Holmes felt whole for the first time in eighteen months.

_I never felt so much alike_

John Watson smiled at Sherlock Holmes and his heart sang, and he quivered. 

He was whole once again, and he felt like new.

Sherlock Holmes was back, and John Watson was at his side.


End file.
